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Subject: Hoisington (Mf f-solo pett nosex humor) 3,448 words Posted
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Date: Fri, 29 Apr 2005 16:24:01 -0700
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Hoisington (Mf f-solo pett nosex humor) 3,448 words Posted
05/05/04
BLURB:
In this humorous attempt at deliberate bad writing your beloved author
faces down an irate father while armed only with blazing wit and wet
underwear. Or maybe just wet underwear.
A*F*T*S
Edweird Lytwer-Bulton
(Sometimes knows as Russell Hoisington)
If this is not the worst story I've ever written, it's not from lack of
effort on my part. I wrote it as an exercise in bad similes, metaphors,
and other big grammatical words most people don't learn in High School
English, just in case the ASSM Bulwer-Lytton Festival came to fruition. It
didn't, but I decided to inflict it upon the world anyway. If you aren't
familiar with Edward Bulwer-Lytton and his (in)famous novel Paul Clifford,
or at least with Snoopy's attempt to be an author in "Peanuts," then the
first paragraph (and everything after it) will have little meaning for you.
People looking for a "stroker" will be joining you at the exit.
My sincerest thanks to Billy Forrest, DB_Story, Denny Wheeler, the Dirty
Old Man in North Carolina, and Uncle Sky, without whose help this story
might accidentally have been in far better taste.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
It was a bright and shiny day; my wood-frame house shook like a
stressed-out crack junkie in the pangs of withdrawal as I stumbled from
between the rumpled sheets of my comfortably lukewarm waterbed, grabbed
freshly laundered jockey shorts from the clean-laundry basket, and,
staggering with drowsiness, got them properly oriented the second time I
pulled them on, before finally reaching for my comfortably shabby,
knee-length, plaid, flannel robe, the one I normally wore only inside the
house out of sight of the general public because it had more variegated
stains defiling it than has a whorehouse mattress, but I had no other
choice since it was the only robe handy, and I had to get to the front door
before the pounding sent the neutral beige Sears Best Easy Living interior
latex paint on the gypsum board walls fluttering to the floor in small
chips, like a bland snow storm of mediocrity.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Grumbling like a frustrated spinster with bad false teeth I jerked open
the front door and beheld the entire defensive line of the Broncos on
steroids-to include the developmental squad. I blinked and they coalesced
into one beefy, red-faced man sporting shoulders as wide as the flight deck
of the Nimitz. It was the incredible Hulk's bigger and far meaner brother.
Menace swirled around him as thick as electrons about a uranium atom. He
was drawing back either a small Celebes ox with a bad complexion or a
well-battered fist.
"Hey!" I said, jumping backward and slipping on one or two dropped
sports sections of the Rocky Mountain News, but managing to remain as
upright as a Baptist preacher thinks he isand in the path of imminent
danger.
Okay, so "Hey!" wasn't a grandiloquent speech, and you'd expect better
from a famous author. Or from an infamous one (I always get those two
words mixed up). I didn't have time to reinvent Hamlet's soliloquy, okay?
Let's see how inventive you are when you're life's about to go the way of
buggy whips, Edsels, and eight-track tape players. But he lowered the fist
to his side, though he kept it clenched tighter than Great Grandpa Macleod
squeezing a buffalo nickel when the collection plate passed.
The man-I reasonably assumed from the narrow, ratty beard that crawled
around its jaw line like an unpressed caterpillar, the Schwarzeneggeresque
physique, and the seventeen tattoos on each of its upper arms that it was
male-was a gall-swollen redwood growing out of my front porch. Try to
imagine a redwood topped by leaves the color of recently tarnished brass
and possessing a face like a rabid buffalo with its balls caught in a bear
trap and you'll be close. "Your name Hoistigon?" he snarled, displaying
half-dissolved sugar cubes in a cup of cold French roast Folger's as his
concept of teeth.
"No." I decided I would show the fearsome brute no fear, even though he
was tougher than a Welsh spelling bee. He obviously was the type of thug
who, even as an adult, roasted ants in the noonday sun with an eight-inch
magnifying glass just to watch them explode. But I instinctively knew that
he would respect someone standing up to him. Okay, I was silently and
fervently praying to every major and minor deity I could name that he would
show me that respect because I knew that slamming and locking the door
would offer me as much protection as a starched kleenex in a Tokyo tsunami.
I crossed my arms across my chest to hold my robe closed, and to pin my
heart between my ribs lest it burst forth like the Alien. I hoped he
wouldn't realize that a wet, yellow patch now stained my formerly-clean,
white, cotton underwear the way gangbang semen stained the virtue of a
Catholic girls' school Honor Student.
He blinked. Slowly. Like someone who routinely has to blink via
conscious thought. A primitive frown of puzzlement sprang to life on his
blood-red face and slowly evolved into abject confusion. "I thought this
was the Hoistigon place," he rumbled, and I suddenly knew how Roman marble
statues tumbling in the drum of a runaway cement truck with a defective
power take-off would sound.
"The Hoistigons live about three counties over that-a-way." I started to
point, but I was afraid my quaking hand would imply that I was either
terrified or offering to jack him off. Neither indication promised less
than a trip to the emergency room-more likely to the city morgue-for me. I
nodded vaguely past the escarpment that was his left shoulder, and I wasn't
surprised when he twisted to look. With the shifting of his weight the
boards of the porch groaned like oarsmen on a slave galley learning the
Captain wanted to go water skiing. "My name's Hoisington."
He turned slowly back to me, as inexorably as a continental glacier
scraping Canada off the map. "Close enough."
I was afraid it would be. The man was as pissy as a twelfth-hour diaper
and certainly no more pleasant. Keeping my courage from scattering like
children at recess took more effort than was required to lift the turret
from a tank, or to hurl a space shuttle into orbit, or to keep a priest off
an altar boy. "And what brings you here, Mister...?"
"Collucci. I'm looking for my daughter, Nykki." He gave me the kind of
look most frequently used by policemen when a man wearing a mask and
holding a gun and a overstuffed bag runs out of a bank and into their
midst. "You just get out of bed?"
I stroked my unshaven chin with a thumb-and-forefinger pinch and looked
down past a recent pizza sauce stain on my robe to bare legs and feet
scarred by multiple accidents while playing mumbletypeg as a teenager. My
breath was worse than an armadillo that had lost a game of chicken with a
Peterbuilt outside Del Rio in August. Although I'm over six feet tall, he
could easily look down at my tangled hair that was indistinguishable from a
nest built of cheap grey yarn by a schizophrenic rat in a government drug
research lab. Clearly I was in a battle of wits and had the superior
weaponry with my intellectual howitzer versus his BB gun. But was I
sufficiently awake to aim?
"As a matter of fact, I did." That was Plan A: confuse him with facts
until I was coherent enough to think of Plan B.
One bloodshot eye, its sclera displaying a map of the interstate system
in red, closed a little more and began twitching erratically, as if
telegraphing his alleged thoughts in Chinese Morse code. "Whadda ya doin'
in bed this time of day?"
I shrugged and tried to pinch off another dribble of urine through
conscious effort while maintaining a face as calm as the corpse I could
easily become. "I work nights. I have to sleep sometime."
The twitching became a flutter, not unlike the wings of a hyperactive
butterfly with its feet caught in an Okefenokee swamp sundew. Suspicion
dripped from his voice with the annoying predictability of a leaking faucet
at three in the morning. "On a Saturday?"
I subtracted another five points from my already low estimate of his IQ.
"Last night was Friday. I got off work three hours ago. Why are you
looking for your daughter here?"
As if he had finally made the Friday-Saturday connection he grunted, a
drawn-out occasion accompanied by malodorous breath still saturated with
last night's garlic and beer. "I figure she's been foolin' around lately.
You know-by the way she'd been actin'. All moonstruck eyes 'n' giggles? I
found where she hid her diary under her mattress. It says she's been doin'
some guy named Hoistigon."
"Oh, well, then that's not me. They live about three counties over
that-a-way," I said with a directional nod and an unsuccessfully restricted
milliliter of urine.
He turned like a sorghum molasses tornado in a Siberian winter to look
over his right shoulder and then twisted back, one Jimmy Dean Sausage thumb
emerging from a fist the size of a 1996 four-door Buick Century to point
over his left. "You said they lived over that-a-way."
Ulp! "Until you told me about your daughter I thought you meant the
southern branch of their family. Couldn't be them, though. They're
Celibate Baptists. Haven't had a single stroke of sex for over three
generations."
"Oh," he said with a slow, contemplative nod of his head. Clearly each
of his thoughts, small though they were, threatened to overflow the banks
of the mental stream in his cranium like the Han River in monsoon season,
so I subtracted five more points. "Billy seen her coming up your
sidewalk."
I was as clueless as an Amish bride on her wedding night-unless Billy
Forrest had traveled seven thousand miles just to give that message to
Collucci as revenge for my mentioning his name in the author's comments,
which wasn't all that unlikely. "Billy?"
"Yeah." To him that was self-explanatory. It couldn't have been more
final if it were a speeding ticket in West Point, Kentucky on Easter
Sunday.
I just wanted to return to bed with my teeth in my mouth instead of my
hand and my blood in my veins instead of on the porch. And to get away
from Mount Vesuvius Collucci before he erupted on Pompeii Hoisington. "Mr.
Collucci, is you daughter an intelligent girl?"
His head nodded like that of an arthritic bobble-head doll in the rear
window of a '64 Chrysler with bad shocks crossing railroad tracks. "Smart
as a whip."
I have many startling and wonderful talents. Controlling my tongue is
not among them. "Takes after her mother, eh?"
He frowned and leaned down to fisheye me with that reddened interstate
map. The stale beer and garlic was joined by a faint whiff of Old Spice, a
combination that promised death as certain as the combination of a smart
bomb's whistle and a laser designator's glowing spot on your chest. "You
sayin' Renee's been fuckin' around, too?"
For an instant I thought I had dodged a calamity, but reality suddenly
slapped me in the face like Ginger McFall when she caught me looking down
her blouse in tenth grade. "No, I.... Uh, what does she look like?"
He looked even more confused, which as an accomplishment ranks at least
even with the Red Sox winning the World Series. "Renee?"
Minus another five points. "No, your daughter."
From the look on his dinnerplate face you'd have thought I'd asked him
to explain the Theory of Relativity in Swahili. "Why?"
"I have an idea." In truth I had only its shipping invoice. With any
luck it would arrive while I still had thirty-two teeth in my mouth.
"Hmmm." While he blinked with the speed of a snail on tranquilizers and
pondered that, my cerebral UPS van delivered. I pressed the wrinkles out
of the details while he said, "Nykki's seventeen, 'bout five and a quarter.
Got real bright red hair and green eyes. Been kinda skinnylike, but she's
startin' t'fill out like Renee."
I nodded slowly, pursed my lips in feigned thought, and looked left and
right. I leaned forward to whisper so he would know I wanted to avoid
being overheard by those guys in trench coats overhead in their black
stealth helicopters. "I think I understand what's going on here."
He clouded up like the skies of hurricane Isabel and thundered, "What's
goin' on here is I'm gonna beat your ass into a pulp if you're humpin' my
daughter."
The wet yellow stain grew a little larger. We were dangerously close to
having a brown stain enjoin it in a territorial dispute.
He sniffed like a Lewellyn setter seeking a covey of quail in sagebrush.
"You pissin' in your pants?"
"I can't. I'm not wearing pants." I spared another nod to indicate the
side of the porch. "One of the neighbors' cats uses those petunias as a
litter box."
The head slowly turned to look at the hanging basket. His face couldn't
have looked more awestruck if the top five NASCAR drivers had walked up and
addressed him by name. "He gets all the way up there? Somebody oughta put
him on stupid pet tricks." He hummed in alleged thought, sounding like a
dying model airplane engine. "Wonder how much they pay for that?"
Another five points. "Look, I'm a psychologist," I said as he oozed
back to me.
His face again darkened like the Seattle skies in the rainy season.
"What kinda psychologist works nights?"
I added back those last five points. Apparently someone did live inside
that intellectual tenement. "I treat work-related stress problems in
overnight-delivery loading crews at the airport."
His brassy eyebrows slowly rose into twin arches resembling nothing so
much as a hamburger chain's patina-stained sign. "Oh!" he said in almost
reverent tones.
He bought that? Maybe I was hasty restoring those points. "Mister
Collucci, I think you have two distinct problems here."
I swear the man grew fangs that would have given a smilodon canine envy.
"You fuckin' both my daughter and my wife?"
"NO! Your daughter...."
His fist slowly drew back like a battering ram at the gates of a
besieged castle. I had no doubt it could do at least as much damage to me.
"So you are doin' Nykki!"
"ThatsnotwhatIsaid!" I screeched, felt my control weaken, and wondered
how much more my underwear could hold before the urine started dripping.
The fist paused, cocked and ready to fire, held back by a hair-trigger with
the sensitivity of a hemorrhoid infected with jock itch. Keeping my voice
as steady as a jackhammer on overdrive I said, "Your daughter has two
problems: a schoolgirl crush and AFTS."
Acronyms: your friend indeed when you're in need. The Sisyphean task of
birthing a thought
appropriated all of his mental processes, including the ones necessary
to keep his fist aloft and cocked. Eventually that thought, like Athena,
sprang to fully-formed life in the desolate, rocky cavern of his head and
announced its birth with a resounding, "Huh?"
"Her description sounds like somebody I've seen around here a few times.
Look: your daughter obviously has developed a schoolgirl crush on me for
some reason. Maybe I remind her of someone she can't have, a movie star,
or a rock performer perhaps, or maybe there's some feature of mine she
fixated on. I mean, who knows why women do anything, right?" Obviously one
Mister Collucci didn't understand women any more than he understood
differential calculus, celestial mechanics, or two plus two without using
your fingers. "Anyway, for some strange reason she's fixated on me. With
me so far?"
"Ummm..." I waited for his cogwheel train of thought to climb Pike's
Peak to the station. "Yeah?"
"Excellent! I knew a man of your vast intellectual depletion would
understand. Now: she's fixated on me for some reason, but she can't do
anything about it. I suspect she hangs around here hoping to catch a
glimpse of me, and that's why Billy saw her coming up my sidewalk. Maybe
she was going to peep in one of the windows." I lifted one hand from my
crossed arms enough to snap my fingers but not enough to display my
mostly-yellow with white jockeys. "I'll bet she's the one who scared the
cat out of the petunias on Thursday of last week."
The storm clouds darkened further, and his eyes crackled lightning while
he again lifted the battered Buick for a high-speed drive into the bridge
abutment of my charming face. "Then why's her diary say she's doin' you?"
"Aha! That's the AFTS: affectionate feelings transferral syndrome, a
concept probed in Erie depth by Sigmoid Fraud and the subject of two broken
treatises concerning Cherry Kay and Sue and without the usual Apache
reservations, but let's not dwell on those Indian details because it's your
daughter who has the problem."
If he had been attempting to assemble a thought, that drivel should have
scattered the parts and shredded the instruction manual as effectively as a
four-year-old on Christmas morning.
"She's found somebody else who has whatever trait attracted her to me,
and she's having sex with him. But in her mind, she's pretending it's me.
Then when she writes about it in her diary, she says that it's me for two
reasons. One, she's protecting him, but primarily she's pretending that
it's me to bolster her AFTS fantasy."
He waited three breaths and then said, "You said there was two reasons."
Minus another five. We were rapidly approaching negative numbers here.
"That was two."
A spark of understanding slowly grew visible in the darkness of his
eyes. I wondered if it would die of loneliness. Perhaps, but the Buick
unclenched and lowered.
"In her diary she said somethin' about your eyes." He leaned down again
and peered into each one, again blessing me with the sacrament of garlic,
stale beer, and Old Spice and a ritual frown. "They are kinda weird
colored."
"There you go! No doubt she's found someone with the same color eyes,
and she's having sex with him, but writing in her diary that he's me."
The calm eye of the hurricane passed. Cumulonimbus clouds reappeared,
but not to rain blows upon my parade. He snarled and thundered, "Billy!
That's where I seen them eyes before." He turned and stomped away, the
one-bys of the porch threatening to break as they sank and heaved and
popped loose more green chips of Sears Exterior Weatherbeater paint. He
paused on the creaking wooden steps to look back at me and growl, "Thanks.
Sorry to disturb you."
"That's okay," I said, hoping I was speaking normally instead of
squeaking like an asthmatic hamster sucking helium. "Glad I could help." I
closed and locked the door, fully aware that he could just come through the
wall if he changed his mind. But maybe the lock would keep out the
transient riff-raff. I heaved a deep sigh out of my path and returned to
the bedroom.
While I removed my robe and wet underwear I watched a slender middle
finger slowly stroking the hot, wet slit dividing a bush that resembled
steel wool in the jet of a propane torch, only redder and much, much
hotter. Her diddle-dew made it glisten like nose hair after a sneeze. An
undeniable surge of desire went through me like a dose of Milk of Magnesia
with a prune juice chaser.
"I thought I'd warm it up for you," she said with her own desire rampant
in the mosh pit of her emerald eyes. "What was that about." Even though
she had just awakened, she looked as snappy as a wet towel in a boy's
locker room, and I felt the boom of my sexual derrick slowly extend. I
crawled in beside her and stroked my hand up one firm, smooth thigh as
luxurious as the finest French velvet, stopping at the top to displace her
oscillating finger with my own trembling digit. I plunged it into her,
causing her to groan like the hull of a diesel sub at a hundred fathoms,
and found her wet with her own secretions and my two-hour-old semen. She
needed a fresh injection of Hoisington Happy-Juice, and Doctor Russ was the
only one in a three county radius who could fill that prescription.
As my erection hardened like the heart of an under-quota tax collector,
I tongued her ear and whispered, "Your father said you need to find a new
hiding place for your diary. You want to scoot over this way a little more
so we don't wake up your mother?"
c Russell Hoisington 2004
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